Candy Slain Page 18

  As it happens, Germany was tied up in the middle of all that drama. He’d been distracted during dinner, even though he didn’t want to admit it.

  “You seem distracted,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  Germany shook his head. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  Germany had been working as the director of the new play at the community theater. I knew the job had been stressing him out so I assumed that was the problem.

  “Did something happen at rehearsal tonight?”

  “I don’t want to complain,” he said. “I just want to keep moving forward.”

  “Complaining usually makes me feel better. Come on. Talk to me.”

  Germany sighed. “It’s just… We have our first show tomorrow night and nothing is going well. Adam doesn’t know his lines. He supposed to be this great actor, but he keeps messing up. So that’s stressing me out.”

  I shook my head. “That’s so surprising. That guy never shut up about the big roles he had on Broadway when he was younger.”

  Germany shrugged. “I know. But he’s not professional. He makes everything more difficult. I hate to admit it, we got into a bit of a yelling match earlier today. I scolded Adam for forgetting his lines. He scolded me for being a dictator not a director. I insulted his work ethic. It wasn’t good. And the whole love triangle among Adam, his wife Dorothy, and his costar Zambia isn’t helping.”

  Zambia was a beautiful woman originally from the Caribbean. She was graceful, elegant and poised.

  Adam’s wife was the opposite. Small, shrill. Obviously jealous. Especially because Zambia and Adam were supposed to share a kiss on stage.

  “Is Dorothy interfering in rehearsal?”

  “She sits in the back of the theater the entire time. Apparently she wants to make sure Adam doesn’t kiss Zambia with genuine passion. But I’ll tell you, I’m right there, and I believe there is genuine passion. It’s a disaster.”

  I exhaled. “You know what? That sounds stressful. But the play isn’t until tomorrow so why don’t you relax for tonight? Come back to the farmhouse. Miss May and I will make you your favorite cookies.”

  Germany nodded. “Perhaps that would be nice. A plate of cookies could be just what the doctor ordered.”

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Germany squeezed my hand. I could tell he felt a little better and that made me proud. It was early in our relationship so I was still trying to earn good girlfriend points whenever possible.

  Germany and I were headed toward the exit when Master Skinner stormed into the restaurant. Master Skinner was a sensei who owned the local dojo in town. He was also a cast member in Germany’s play. An understudy for the lead, Adam.

  Germany took a step back when Skinner entered. Skinner pointed right at him. “You. I knew you would be here, dining out in an upscale casual setting while the production is in shambles. We need to talk.”

  Germany held up both his hands in surrender. “I’d be happy to talk tomorrow, Master Skinner. But right now I’m headed home.”

  Master Skinner balled up one of his famous fists of fury.

  “On second thought,” said Germany. “What would you like to discuss?”

  “I want the part,” said Skinner. “I was not meant to be an understudy. Adam is a hack. I doubt he was ever on Broadway.”

  “I’ve seen the playbills,” said Germany.

  “You can fake that stuff,” Skinner said. “Adam doesn’t have the talent to back up his claims.”

  I stepped forward. “Miss May saw him in a performance of cats. Back in the 80’s, I think. Supposedly he was a very good cat.”

  Skinner shook his head. “You don’t need talent to be a cat. Purr, purr.” Skinner licked an imaginary paw. “That’s not acting. It’s child’s play. Now give me that lead role for tomorrow’s performance, Germany. Give me the role or you will regret it.”

  Germany’s face reddened. “You really shouldn’t threaten me like that. I am your director.”

  “I’m not threatening you. I’m just promising you, Adam will botch this performance. I feel it in my bones, and my bones are never wrong, Germany. Never!” Skinner was rarely this worked up, and I could tell that Germany was rattled.

  I put my hand on Germany’s arm. “It’s OK, Germany. Let’s just go home.”

  Germany glared at Master Skinner. I had never seen Germany so upset. Honestly, I didn’t hate it. The fire in his eyes made his bowtie less “cute boy” and more “James Bond at a casino.”

  “You’re right, Chelsea. I can’t worry about this. If Master Skinner doesn’t want to be an understudy then he doesn’t need to show up at the play tomorrow.”

  Skinner tossed his head back and laughed. “Oh, good one, Germany. You’ll see. Just wait.” With that, Skinner stormed back outside into the rainy night.

  Germany sighed. I felt bad for him, having to deal with so many complicated personalities.

  Chapter 2

  Acting Out

  The morning after I had dinner with Germany, I met Miss May and Teeny for breakfast at my number one favorite restaurant in Pine Grove, Grandma’s. Grandma’s belonged to Teeny’s mom, Granny, but Teeny was the brains and brawn behind the operation. The place was cute as could be. Brick exterior with a charming green awning out front. And no matter the time of day, it was packed with the people of Pine Grove, chatting and enjoying one of Teeny’s home-cooked delicacies.

  I approached, walking my puppy, Steve, and stopped a few feet outside the entrance. I knelt down and looked the dog in the eyes. “Steve,” I said. “Listen. You’re going to have to sit outside while I eat breakfast, OK?”

  Steve whimpered.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s not fun being leashed outside the restaurant. But I don’t want to get Teeny in trouble. And if she lets me bring you inside, she has to let her other regulars bring their dogs, and it’s a whole big thing. You understand, right?”

  Steve cocked his head and plopped down on the sidewalk. Even though he was still technically a puppy, and he walked with the same cute limp he’d always had, he had gotten much bigger since Germany had given the dog to me several months ago.

  Steve had the personality of an adorable toddler and the body of a grown dog. Imagine if Stone Cold Steve Austin walked and talked like Shirley Temple — that was my puppy. I tied Steve up to a bike rack and went inside.

  I entered to find almost every seat in the restaurant taken. The energetic buzz of conversation filled the air. Waiters bustled in every direction. But Teeny wasn’t worried about working too hard. She sat in the back of the restaurant, at our favorite booth, chatting with Miss May.

  I smiled when I saw them. Miss May and Teeny made a cute pair. Teeny was, well, very tiny. She had a puff of blonde hair and a smile that might as well have been a neon sign. Miss May, my aunt and adoptive parent, was big and broad and moved thoughtfully. That morning, my aunt wore her trademark blue jeans with a flannel and her glasses were perched on the end of her nose.

  Teeny practically squealed when she saw me. “Chelsea. You’re finally here. Where have you been? It doesn’t matter. Tell us about the fight.”

  “What fight?”

  Miss May crossed her arms. “You know what fight. The scuffle between your boyfriend and Master Skinner. Everyone is talking about it.”

  I slid into the booth. It surprised me that I had already forgotten about the tense moment between Germany and Master Skinner. And I don’t know how I didn’t realize the townspeople would blow it way out of proportion.

  “It wasn’t a scuffle,” I said.

  Teeny poured me a cup of coffee, then added almost equal parts sugar. “That’s not what we heard. We heard you had to physically restrain Germany. And Master Skinner balled up his fist of fury and growled like an angry dog.”

  I chuckled. “No one growled.”

  Teeny and Miss May leaned forward in unison, like synchronized swimmers. “Then what happened?” asked Miss May.

  I sighed. “You two are n
ot going to let me have breakfast until I tell you this story beat for beat, are you?”

  Teeny raised her eyebrows. “The kitchen is closed to Chelsea until Chelsea spills the proverbial refried beans.”

  “How would you spill refried beans?” I asked. “Wouldn’t they kind of slide out of the can?”

  “I make my refried beans from scratch, Chelsea,” said Teeny. “And trust me. I’ve spilled them. Not fun to clean up.”

  Miss May cringed. “Gross. Refried beans everywhere. What you do for that?”

  Teeny shrugged. “Start with paper towels, that gets up most of it. Then get one of the waiters to scrub for as long as it takes to de-bean.”

  Miss May chuckled. “I forgot you have waiters to do the dirty work.”

  “Oh, I do not. I just know how to delegate. Can we focus on the drama from last night?” Teeny said. “I’m sure Chelsea’s hungry so we should let her tell the story.”

  Teeny was right. I was hungry. So I obliged. Told the story with as many details as I could remember. I thought they might be disappointed to learn that there really had been no growling. Miss May and Teeny thrived on gossip. They gobbled up every word like it was a freshly baked treat. And I’ll admit, it was satisfying retelling the tale.

  When I was finally done, Teeny placed her palms on the table and stood up. “OK. Great job, Chelsea. You have earned one of my world-famous tarts.”

  Miss May looked up at Teeny. “You make tarts?”

  Teeny nodded. “Starting today I do. And they’re already world-famous.”

  Teeny hurried away. Miss May and I laughed.

  “I bet these tarts are good,” I said.

  Miss May nodded. “Everything Teeny makes is good.”

  A few minutes later, Teeny set three perfect tarts on the table. They were big. At least 4 inches in diameter. Fresh raspberry compote was piled on top and oozed over the edges. The tart was dusted with powdered sugar and looked like it had been cut straight from a magazine. Or printed from the Internet or something. Do they even make magazines anymore? Not important. The tarts looked good.

  “Teeny,” said Miss May. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Teeny smiled. “I know.”

  “But you serve these for breakfast?” Miss May asked. “It looks like a desert.”

  Teeny dismissed Miss May with a wave of the hand. “Breakfast and dessert are the same thing, just on opposite sides of night. Taste it.”

  Miss May and I reached out and each took a tart. The thing was so delicate I handled it like it was a live stick of dynamite. Until, of course, I took a big, sloppy bite. The raspberry was tart, tangy, and sweet. Real chunks of raspberry melded together with a gooey, thick, homemade syrup. And the cookie crust was flaky, buttery, delicious shortbread. Did I mention buttery?

  Teeny leaned forward. “How is it?”

  Miss May wiped her mouth. “Can’t you tell by the way we’re eating in total silence? These things are incredible.”

  I nodded. “World-famous.”

  Teeny cackled and smacked the table with glee. “I knew it. I knew they were world-famous. Oh boy I’m glad you like them. Are you two just saying that?”

  I responded with my mouth full. “Nope. These are delicious.”

  Teeny smirked and smacked the table again. Miss May and I laughed. Spending time together at Teeny’s restaurant always felt good, especially when Teeny had a new delicacy to share. Actually, I take that back. The delicacies didn’t matter. All that mattered was good time with family and friends. Sure, being a guinea pig for amazing food was a perk, but it wasn’t the point.

  I had spent so many years living away from home, for school, for work, for my relationship… I had always known that I was missing out on big events, like birthdays and holidays. But I hadn’t realized all the small moments I had missed, like sitting at Teeny’s restaurant, laughing on a random Friday morning. I felt a surge of joy, of gratitude, just to be in a familiar booth in a familiar place with people I loved completely.

  Until, of course… The moment was interrupted.

  Someone pushed the front door of the restaurant open with a bang and charged toward our table. His high, nasal voice gave me a pretty good idea of who it was. “Chelsea. Teeny. Miss May. I hear you three have been gossiping about the community production of Phantom of the Opera.”

  I turned. Sure enough, there was Adam Smith. The notorious lead actor from the community theater. He was wearing black slacks and a turtleneck. And his hair was slicked back behind his ears. Classic actor.

  “Is that true, ladies? Have you been spreading rumors of infighting among the cast and crew?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m confused. You’re angry because we’re talking about how everyone in the play has been fighting?”

  “All that matters is the work. People always lose sight of that. Don’t you worry about our process. We are dramatists. Our passion infuses our work. It’s not meant to be discussed by the people in town. We are performers. We are meant to remain pure. We are not meant to be ground up in the local rumor mill like common oats.”

  Teeny chuckled. “Adam. You really are dramatic. A little gossip never hurt anyone. Besides, Chelsea was there. Your understudy verbally attacked her boyfriend. I heard he growled.”

  “No one growled,” I said. “And I’m sorry for gossiping, Adam. You’re right. We should support local theater not grind it up in the rumor mill. I’m sure it’s going to be very good.”

  The town lawyer, Tom Gigley, popped his white-haired head up from the booth behind us. “Hey, I don’t care if you actors hate each other. Live theater is such a thrill. I hope you get into an argument on stage. Maybe a fistfight breaks out. Then I’ll get my money’s worth.”

  Teeny pointed at Tom to show her agreement. “Well said, Tom. The more these people hate each other, the less boring the play will be. I bet these rumors are helping ticket sales.”

  I shook my head. “The play is not going to be boring, even if no one gets into a fistfight. Germany has worked hard on this production.”

  Adam crossed his arms. “We have all worked hard on this production. We have poured our souls into it. Committed our lives to theater and the dramatic arts. Please respect that.” Adam waved his arm wide, gesturing at the people dining in the restaurant. “All of you. Respect our privacy. Support our art. That is all we ask.”

  Adam turned and hightailed it out of the restaurant with his nose held high.

  Miss May chuckled. “If Adam is the lead in the play, I’m sure it’s going to be very exciting.”

  If only Miss May knew how right she would turn out to be… Pine Grove’s production of Phantom was about to have more thrills than all of Broadway combined.

  Chapter 3

  Dead Man Talking

  The Pine Grove community theater was situated right in the center of town, near the gazebo and the walking track. The theater was housed in a one-story brick building with a big parking lot. There was a playground off to the side for bored children. And when there was no play going on, the stage was often home to dance classes, knitting clubs, or preschool groups on field trips.

  On opening night, there was an electric hum in the air. Dozens of audience members gathered out front, excited for the town production of Phantom of the Opera.

  An elderly lady with big, gray hair pushed and shoved her way toward will call. Girl Scouts sold cookies out front. Humphrey, a Grandma’s regular and curmudgeon-about-town, went from person to person with a bucket, selling raffle tickets to benefit the town’s next production.

  Miss May smiled and nudged me with her elbow as we approached. “Don’t you love live theater?”

  I nodded. “I loved it way more before Germany got involved. This stuff is stressful.”

  Miss May shook her head. “It’s a good stress. The stress that comes from working with people. Building something together. Creating an experience that will delight your friends and neighbors and will be talked about for years to come.”

&
nbsp; “You two wait up.” Teeny rushed toward us from the parking lot. “I thought we were meeting at my restaurant. What happened?”

  Miss May crinkled her eyes. “We never said we were meeting at your restaurant.”

  Teeny’s eyes widened. “Then who was I supposed to meet at the restaurant?” Teeny crossed her arms. “And why were they late?”

  Miss May shrugged. “I’m not sure. But if you want candy, we better get inside.”

  “I want a lot of candy,” said Teeny. “I bet Chelsea does too.”

  I smiled. “You know me so well.”

  Excited audience members crowded the lobby of the theater. There was a line for the women’s room that snaked out toward the front door. But there was no line for the men’s room. That was always how it worked.

  A bored teenage girl sold candy behind a folding table. Teeny approached with a big smile. “Hey there. I’ll take one of everything.”

  The teenage girl cocked her head. “You want one of every candy?” She spoke in a drawling monotone that almost made me laugh.

  I stepped forward. “Teeny loves candy. I bet she’ll come back for more at intermission.”

  “If everything goes according to plan, I’m gonna sneak out during the first act for extra sweets,” said Teeny. I wasn’t sure if Teeny was serious or not, but the lady did love her sweets.

  The girl shrugged and rang Teeny up. Teeny leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you heard about all the fighting in the cast? Do you think there’s going to be fireworks tonight?”

  The teenage girl shrugged. “I’m just doing community service hours for my church group. I don’t pay attention to the gossip. But if I did pay attention to the gossip, I’d expect fireworks. Every actor in this play hates each other. And I hear they hate the weird director even more.”

  “Hey,” I said. “The director is my boyfriend.”

  The teen girl looked down. “Sorry I called him weird.”

  I shrugged. “It’s OK. He is weird. It’s his best quality.”

  The lights in the lobby flickered. Miss May rubbed her hands together. Her eyes sparkled. “Better go get our seats, ladies. It’s going to start a couple minutes.”